


Out of the Question

by jane_with_a_j



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Definitely not pining, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, i don't know what you're talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:34:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24014515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: Aziraphale had to tell Crowley to stay home during the lockdown.  Naturally.  But hadn't been expecting Crowley to react the way he did.  Now he can't stop worrying that he's done something wrong.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I wrote one of these, too. I'm not made of stone.

Aziraphale wasn't sure how long he'd been staring at the phone.

“Good night angel.” And then silence.

Well, it was what he'd said he wanted, wasn't it? There were _rules_. And he _was_ quite content, shut up in his bookshop, with all the time in the world for reading, and an endless supply of cake.

Only.

The cake wasn't quite the same, without Crowley.

But then, everyone was having to make sacrifices, weren't they? It had been the right thing to do. The right thing to say.

Still, he had expected Crowley to put up more of a fuss. To argue. To try to persuade him, to _tempt_ him. It wasn't that he was _disappointed_. No, no. Just ... surprised.

He was still staring at the phone.

Sleep until July? He couldn't have meant that. Even if he couldn't come over, they could still _talk_. Even now, Aziraphale was half expecting the phone to ring. For Crowley to call him back, ready with some dubious, yet strangely persuasive reason as to why it made sense for him to come over, why no right-thinking person could _possibly_ object.

The phone didn't ring.

Which was fine. Best not to allow the wily old serpent to tempt him into doing the wrong thing. All for the best. Really.

Aziraphale stood up, turned, and headed to the back of the bookshop, where a tiny kitchenette was hidden away in the back room. He already had one of his cookbooks open to the recipe he intended to try making the next day, a chocolate caramel cheesecake. He smiled to himself as he put the kettle on for tea. Everything was going to be fine. He had everything he needed. It was fine.

A short time later, cup of tea in hand and a slice of two-day-old (but miraculously still fresh) sponge cake at his side, he sat down and picked up the next book from his pile, looking forward to settling in for the evening.

Several minutes passed before he put down the book in frustration. He couldn't focus. Why couldn't he focus? He had everything just as he liked it – well, almost everything – so why couldn't he relax?

He did hope he hadn't hurt Crowley's feelings, telling him not to come over like that.

He should call Crowley back. Just to explain himself. To make sure that Crowley understood. It wasn't that Aziraphale didn't _want_ to see him – Crowley had been over at the bookshop so often in recent months, it was almost as though he lived here, and since the lockdown, Aziraphale _had_ been starting to miss that. Which was why he'd called in the first place. To talk. Because he'd missed hearing Crowley's voice. And now that, that... that _fiend_ was just going to sleep away the next few months? And leave Aziraphale alone, with no one to talk to, even over the telephone?

Aziraphale took a deep breath. There was no sense in feeling angry at Crowley. The demon hadn't done anything wrong.

Which was sort of the point. Crowley was a demon. He was _supposed_ to do wrong things.

Aziraphale realized he was staring at the telephone again.

What if Crowley _was_ angry with him?

He hadn't meant to hurt the demon's feelings, truly he hadn't. It was only ... there were _rules_ , and he was an _angel_ , and yes, okay, he'd never really been the most obedient of angels, but he'd always at least _tried_ to do what he was told. Crowley understood that. He always had. Surely, he wouldn't suddenly get upset about it now?

Things had changed, though. Averting the apocalypse had been a supreme act of disobedience and maybe ... maybe Crowley had been expecting ... wanting? ... him to behave differently now that it was over?

Well, if that was the case, he could have _said_.

Oh, to Hell with it. Aziraphale put down the book, stood up, and crossed the room to his desk. Without giving himself any time to rethink it, he picked up the receiver and dialed a familiar number.

On the other end of the line, the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

And then the machine picked up. _You know what to do, do it with style_.

Blast that old serpent, he'd gone and done it already, hadn't he? He'd gone to sleep, and would be unavailable until July.

Fine. Aziraphale had his books, and his cakes. He didn't need Crowley. He was _fine._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out Crowley is actually pretty predictable, after all.

Aziraphale squinted and covered his eyes. Where had that bright shaft of sunlight come from? He sat up with a start, realizing that he had fallen asleep in his chair. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept.

(Actually, he remembered it quite vividly. It had been at Crowley's flat, the night after the apocalypse had been meant to happen. But those had been extreme circumstances – extreme, exhausting circumstances – and hardly counted.)

What was even more unsettling was that there were _noises_ coming from his back room. Burglars, again? He pushed himself up out of the chair and went to see what was going on.

“Good morning, angel. Thought you didn't sleep.”

Aziraphale stared.

“Crowley,” he said. “What in Heaven's name are you doing here?”

“In Heaven's name? Not a blessed thing,” said Crowley. He made a face. “Nothing in Hell's name either, for that matter.”

“Fine,” said Aziraphale. “What in your own name are you doing here?”

“What's it look like? M'cooking. Thought it might be a bit early for cake-cake, so it's buttermilk pancakes.” Now that Aziraphale had had a moment to process what he was seeing, he noticed the pan, the dirty bowls, and the foil plate already piled high with pancakes.

“My dear, I ... they look delicious ... but I ... oh, is that real maple syrup?”

“The real thing, direct from–” Crowley picked up the bottle and turned it around. “Saint-Louis-de-Blandford, wherever that is.”

Aziraphale did his best to put the pancakes out of his head.

“What are you doing _here?_ ” he asked. “We're meant to be staying home.”

“Funny thing about that,” said Crowley.

“Oh?” said Aziraphale, when Crowley didn't immediately elaborate.

“Well, we're still allowed to go out walking, aren't we?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“I decided to go out walking. Ended up in the neighbourhood. Coincidentally, of course.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale didn't point out that it must have been a pretty long walk.

“Ran into Riley, from the café,” Crowley continued. “Got to chatting. From a safe social distance, of course.” He turned back to the stove, carefully flipping over another pancake. “He asked me how the two of us were doing in lockdown.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What I told him is not the point,” said Crowley. “The point is, he thought I lived here.”

Aziraphale blinked. “He did?”

“Seems a lot of your neighbours think I live here. Probably because I've been here so much, past few months.”

Aziraphale didn't mention that a similar thought had crossed his mind only the night before.

“So,” Crowley went on, “I got to thinking, didn't I? I know you said I shouldn't come over, but. Well. Wouldn't look good if everyone thought I lived here, and I just went sauntering on back to Mayfair, now would it?”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “No, I suppose it wouldn't.” He started to say something else, stopped, started again, then stopped again. “Are you suggesting,” he managed finally, “that you're intending to live here until this is over?” _With me?_

Crowley lifted the pancake out of the pan and deposited it onto the stack.

“Seems like the responsible thing to do,” he said. He peered at Aziraphale over the tops of his sunglasses. “Unless you'd rather I not. I'd have to wait until after dark to leave, though. Can't have anyone seeing me.”

“Do you really want to stay?” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, just a bit more tightly than usual.

Crowley shrugged, very nearly managing to look nonchalant.

“It'd be more fun than staying shut up in that flat of mine, with no one to talk to but my plants,” he said. “Besides,” he added in a mumble, “s'not really _home_ , is it? Always just been a place to sleep, and store my stuff. Not like...”

“Not like?”

Crowley cleared his throat.

“Pancakes?” he asked.

Aziraphale felt a strange warmth bubbling through him.

“Please,” he said.

The pancakes were scrumptious. Crowley didn't eat any, just stood by the stove, watching Aziraphale eat, with an inscrutable half-smile on his face.

“Angel,” he said, after a while.

“Mm?” Aziraphale looked up from his plate.

Crowley gestured to the cookbook that was still lying open on the table.

“Were you _honestly_ planning on making chocolate caramel cheesecake and then eating it without me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I think I may have a Thing about Crowley making breakfast for Aziraphale.
> 
> It might have something to do with the fact that I, too, have a husband who makes fancy weekend breakfasts for me. So I might just have come to the conclusion that pancakes with maple syrup are what love tastes like.


End file.
